A Liar's Victories Are Always Sweet
by insaneprincess
Summary: DracoHermione. You are a predator whose hungry smile has been wrapped in red ribbon; danger concealed by lies and charming fakery. When he kisses you, you are thinking of the best way to push your tongue down his throat and eat his heart out.


A/n; More abstract and poetic writing, to take a break from my millions of other projects. A little more Draco Hermione love.

Reviews are love; and please let me know if you don't get it. Really. This was written very quickly, though I do like it.

R&r.

A Liar's Victories Are Always Sweet.

.

;- because you didn't realize, love makes liars of us all.

.

_Mudblood, he says, voice of steel, I hate you._

_And then there's a curse you don't recognize (too much pain, the smell of death is overwhelming) until much later, there it is in your mind,_

Crucio.

_A scream in the background (was it really your scream, does it really hurt that much? _Yes_.)_

_His eyes are grey and empty, his hand is steady, you are suffocating. The worst pain you've ever experienced, and then it's all white and flashbulb colours, a pretty little daydream, but this time it's all real, everything turned transparent, it's over, is it over?_

i.

open eyes, _now._

blonde, pale, tall, sharp, all angles.

Twist gaze away to make it seem unlike it is, that you're not looking, because you're not.

Smile, laugh, wear your pretty mask. Which one today?

Best friend? Brilliant student? Loyal daughter?

Smile. Go on. Smile.

ii.

you're so good at it now, look at him, look away. Shy smile, bite your lip. Blush.

Watch him notice.

Brown eyes meet grey.

When you walk away, you are smiling. You've always been looking at him, but now he's looking at you, and that's the point, isn't it?

iii.

fingertips on your wrist, they burn, the heat is overwhelming. Will there be a scar?

Grey eyes that burn brighter.

Stop, he says. Stopstopstopstop.

You are a bird with empty wings about the sea spray. You are a heart carved of bone and decorated with gemstones. You are a dancer in a silver dress. You are an artist with four charcoal pencils and no way to capture those grey eyes.

The halls are empty. The silence is like water and you are treading it but he is drowning.

Stop what? you ask.

iv.

he's getting good at cornering you, just the same as you're getting good at escaping him.

He's a little speechless, isn't he, when you look at him with that blank look.

Stop it, he says. Again. Stop it.

I don't know what the hell you're talking about, you say as if you mean it, as if anyone could pretend that there isn't something palpable in the oxygen between you and him.

His hand circles your wrist, fingertips bruising your skin. You don't flinch. He is inches from you.

Stop looking at me.

iv.

his fingers press into your arms, sure to leave bruises, evidence. The stone wall is cold on your back.

Why can't I get you out of my head? he growls, and you bite back the smile that threatens to break onto your lips.

He looks at you like you're the last person alive, and you press your palm to his cheek before pushing away from him.

You are the addict and he is the cigarette. Not because you're addicted to him, you aren't, but because you're so damn good at using him.

v.

the books are coated with dust. Your fingertips dance across them, an unearthly ballet.

Granger, he says, voice like ashes. His hands are warm when he places them on your shoulders, spinning you around.

You feel like a spider, creeping through his skin to eat his heart, an enchantress whose eyes hypnotize him in one glance, a poison lethally pulsing through his blood, a predator whose hungry smile has been wrapped in red ribbon; danger concealed by lies and charming fakery.

When he kisses you, you are thinking of the best way to push your tongue down his throat and eat his heart out.

vi.

the hallway is empty when he interlaces his fingers with yours.

Mine, he says. You're mine.

You can't let anyone know, you whisper, kissing his jaw.

The war's over, he says. At those words, your eyes flicker, there is a whispered curse in the back of your mind, you're on the ground, grey eyes above you…

_Mudblood_, he said.

You blink and he's smiling hopefully at you, like you've always wanted someone to look at you, and when you smile back, you can feel the fangs you're exposing, the lies he should have deciphered by now.

It'll be our little secret, you say.

vii.

his hands are warm on your skin, a familiar and daring dance you take part in, purely physical. Empty of meaning.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, kiss his bare collarbones. There is something reassuring in the way this feels, familiar, safe.

I love you, he whispers suddenly in the darkness, and then there is silence.

You swore you would savour this victory if you ever reached it.

You should taste the success on your tongue,

You got him to love you,

But you don't taste it, instead there is something like _hope_ inside of you, and that's not right,

And you do what you always said you wouldn't.

I love you too.

viii.

you've ignored the letters for weeks, you're getting good at this, this breaking him part, and when you run into him, it's by pure chance, because by this time you thought you were getting so good at avoiding the places he went.

You want to walk by, but that's hard when he's looking at you so fiercely to cover up how hurt he is.

What happened. he says, not asking, saying.

I don't know what you mean.

I told you I loved you, and you said it back, and now you disappear? He looks like he might cry, but it's not like he has feelings, he can't.

I could never love someone like you.

He inhales, stumbling a bit. What do you mean?

Here's your opportunity to say everything you've been meaning to for a year, and you… hesitate.

You shouldn't hesitate.

And you don't question yourself, you just say it, without considering whether the words are true, because you've spent hours whispering them, believing them, counting them as fact; they _must _be.

I don't love murderers, you say. I don't love people who torture me to within an inch of my life.

And there's the comprehension dawning in his eyes, he _gets_ it, all of it, every lie makes sense, every look, every smile, every kiss, every touch, and he's recoiling from you, and you did it.

You won.

You're a liar, he whispers. And I hate you.

You turn away, you walk away, you, the winner. And you try to smile.

Go on. Smile. You broke him, you did what you meant to all along, why aren't you smiling, you're the victory.

But the fireworks in your head sound like bombs and your life is a horizon as you walk away from the man you meant to destroy and did. You did, you did, you did. You caught him and broke him the way he once broke you, and you should be smiling, but you aren't. You aren't.

But you cover it up, hide it, don't you, because like he said, you're a liar, and though your best fakeries always seemed to be for him, you really saved the best lies for yourself.

And the lie makes everything so pretty, the victory so sweet, the sadness in his face so well-deserved, everything is coated in glitter.

The lie makes you the winner.

And who needs something that felt so much like love, when you're the winner?


End file.
